Iron Fist
by GermanicusNB
Summary: The world is evolving violently; the samurai, hailing from the Land of Iron, are losing their fierce grip on the continent. Fearing the growing power of independent, jutsu wielding shinobi, samurai leadership has sent their most well trained warrior, a man known and feared as Sentinel, to subjugate shinobi clans wreaking havoc on the Iron border. His first target? The Senju Clan.
1. Chapter 1

The sun beamed down upon a lone court yard, radiant streaks of light cascading about the harsh, barren tundra that was known as the Land of Iron. The frozen wasteland comprised of rolling hills of crystalline ice and snow, with the looming behemoth of Three Wolves Mountain standing vigilantly in defense of the dreary fortress nature had crafted with the leftovers of its bounty. Torrential gales bit with icy fangs at the flesh of any who dared set foot upon these hallowed grounds, and to cease moving was synonymous with the ceasing of breathing. As cold and rigid as the metal it was named for, the nation was a solemn one, where death and dedication ruled hand in hand, encompassing the life of every man, woman, and child which called it home. None but the strong could live out their days here. As such, the only ones who dared to tread the frozen battlements of Three Wolves Mountain were the known masters of the military world, who were born and bred for battle, the elite warrior caste which had dictated the policy of the continent for hundreds of years.

This was the land of the Samurai.

On this particularly frosty morning, Kinoshinta Hideyoshi thought with a shudder driving itself clean through the marrow of his normally steadfast bones, the deadly facets of the countryside were nothing when compared to the people who occupied it. He thought this especially true as he watched the grandiose spectacle in the training yards below; crowds of burly young bulls of men jostled each other for spots by chalky white lines which divided up the boundaries of the fighting circles, while older, more dignified warriors stood back appraisingly, nodding at every good move made and cringing with each pass of the most miniscule error. The latter group also scratched their beards furiously and raised their eyebrows indignantly at each fresh body which threw itself into the ring which was being held in such high interest. The older ones all knew no matter whom entered they would all come back out beaten and bloodied by the undisputed master of these yards.

Standing in the center of the largest white circle, one designed to be large enough to practice executing war maneuvers as a unit, stood a lean, well defined figure. Rounded shoulders and broad chest encased in ebony armor which glared subtlety in the mid morning light, graying dark hair cut trimly above the top of his neck, the man stood impatiently as four new challengers entered the field and began to scheme with those already in combat against their veteran opponent. His face, though not wizened or blemished, but not young in appearance either, was drawn taut in stoic distaste. On the real field of combat, the lads set out to challenge him would be dead already. Never turn your back to the enemy. That was rule number one. (Or was it rule number two? He did tend to forget, occasionally. It was a rule. That was all that was important.) However, today was a day for greenhorns to take the field against their elders; let them plan, scheme, and strategize. They would need all the help they could get, he thought, not without a hint of guiltless pride.

Off to the side, Kinoshinta shook his head in pity. The addition of the four fresh bodies led the number facing Sentinel (as the practiced hand in the ring was commonly known) put the count at thirteen to one. Thirteen men against one lone soldier! He scratched his chin, puzzled that an experienced hand like Sentinel would ever give fresh blood such an advantage during what was widely considered as a competence examination. In his high, earnest voice, Kinoshinta whispered commentary on the fight to himself.

"Welp, looks like you're in for it this time, chief…"

"Don't be too sure of that, lad."

Whirling with a start, Kinoshinta was surprised to see Shibata Katsuie, a giant of a man with a scraggly onyx beard hanging thick from his chin, monstrous war blade slung about his back. Bearing his own pearl white armor loosely over his large build, he grinned down at the young page. Measuring well over six feet tall, he towered over Kinoshinta. He let loose a deep, lumbering laugh, before crying out to the battle below. "Oi! Sentinel! The boss wants to see you, immediately! Finish playing around!"

Sentinel looked up, face showing faint signs of disappointed exasperation. The thirteen young fighters took this as a sign of distraction, and, having surrounded him in a semi circle, abruptly charged their sensei. The youths cut quite the figure, when viewed with an amateur eye; well built men, encased in stunning white armor, bearing well crafted wooden swords and rushing gloriously into the fray. Two waves came in from the left and the right, three boys to each side, while the remaining seven waited momentarily, before lunging forward themselves, expecting Sentinel to meet one of the two initial groups or backing away in desperation.

One of the men in the front of the forward charge found himself flying back into two of his fellows, as an obsidian blur flashed through the group farther back. Sentinel grinned as the two groups which had attacked from his flanks crashed into each other in their reckless hurry. Panicked and confused shouts rang through the air as the men became tangled and trapped by the collision of their groups.

Whirling towards the remaining five warriors before him, thin training blade flowing like muddy water through the air, Sentinel slashed down the first man to his left, tossing aside the opponent like a rag doll. He immediately transitioned into a back thrust which slammed into the gut of an enemy sneaking from behind, leaving the man groaning in shocked pain on the ground.

The remaining three had taken the time to form a human wall three feet away, each man standing shoulder to shoulder. Charging once more, each man stepped into a different aggressive assault; one thrusting, one slashing from the right, one chopping from above. Sentinel merely grinned and shook his head as his sword became a blur to meet the moves.

They had forsaken the advantage of numbers by meeting him in a direct assault.

He parried the thrust with a flick of his wrist, muscles not even tensing from the effort, lodging the other man's sword in the path of the blades of the other two would be foes. The three novices ended up with their blades colliding just short of where Sentinel's torso had been moments before.

Black lighting flashed through the sky, Sentinel in his terrifying glory gliding fluently through the air above the three, and with a roar and a sweep of his training blade, the samurai were sent flying back several feet, hurtled onto their backs as bones were heard cracking and breaking. They remained there, moaning in agony at their humiliating defeat by only a single warrior, their pride scarred as much as their bodies.

The men that had finally untangled themselves gazed on in horrified realization before dropping their blades and falling to their knees. Sentinel glared at them, aggravated by the ease of their surrender, before clicking his tongue, throwing his blade on the ground in disgust, and stalking out of the ring. As he passed Shibata, the two exchanged glances, and, each recognizing the competence of the other, nodded in respect. Kinoshinta merely glanced after him, wondering what summons could have interrupted the pace of the match.

Training was sacred to the samurai; each man held honing his own skill as the highest of duties. One didn't lightly end scheduled training.

And if the Taisho was the one who called for it, something of vital importance was brewing in the upper echelons of the samurai world…

Sentinel stalked through the dimly lit hallways of fortress. The faint orange embers of the candles guided him into the room of the highest general of the samurai, the Taisho. Exalted as a warrior among warriors, the current Taisho, Tsuneshige, was held to be the strongest who had ever commanded the samurai. Called the Grand Demon, he was found sitting in his crimson armor while pensively brooding over several papers of reports sitting at the head of his cluttered desk. The remainder of the room was equally messy, appearing to have been left in disrepair for quite some time.

The Taisho, with his gray hair falling well over his shoulders and cavernous face drooping in weathered wrinkles, appeared like a defenseless, though gargantuan, old man. Any who took that estimate into battle shortly met their end. His dark black eyes met the green ones of Sentinel, and the two nodded before saluting to each other. Their work over the years together had established a sort of familiarity, and Sentinel was not held to stand on ceremony while in the old man's presence. As such, pleasantries were also skipped.

The dark eyes of the Taisho met Sentinel's own green ones, and the two glanced at the papers in a moment of awkward silence. Before long, however, the Taisho tapped slowly on the top most one in a repeating bang, each time hitting his desk successively harder.

"We…have been the veritable rulers of this continent for decades and a power for centuries." His voice was cold and monotonous, a tinge as biting as the icy landscape they had been born of. "The samurai legacy is a legacy of respect of our military might. Our power, in return, has brought stability to the land. Bandits fear to so much as tread where our eye holds vigilant and the people prosper."

He paused, regarding the paper on his desk. "However…some have begun to call us…obsolete. Relics of bygone days, who are growing feeble in their old age. More suited to a rocking chair than the destrier, better with the pen than the sword."

He leaned forward and growled at Sentinel. "And I won't stand for it! We are not some by gone era, ready for the world to bury at its leisure."

He fumed for a moment, his face turning scarlet in rage before he calmed himself and proceeded.

"…I digress. What I have summoned you for is this; you are familiar with the weavers of jutsu, the shadow warriors, the so called…shinobi?"

Sentinel nodded without hesitation, though not speaking. His face remained stolid and devoid of feeling. He had engaged in border skirmishes with several such groups before. Though mighty, they lacked any real organization, and therefore were never great in number. Still, a tinge of foreboding began to slide its way into the veteran samurai's mind.

Tusneshige continued on; "Very well then. Reports indicate that the shinobi have been rallying recently. Several of their clans have been warring for the past several years, and we have watched silently at the development of their conflicts. However, some of the clans seem to be forming…alliance. Grouping together. Almost…" the old general glared up at his soldier. "…as if they were trying to form a nation. You know as well as I do that if they succeed, the balance of power will be completely thrown asunder."

Sentinel did not respond at all this time; while he was an excellent warrior, he hadn't stepped upon a battle field in over a decade. He was in his fifties now. In no definition was he a young man any longer. The turn this conversation was headed would most definitely not become pleasant.

"Go to the south west, into the Land of Fire. Once there, you will find the rallying clans of shinobi and exterminate them. By any means necessary."

Sentinel barely held back a cringe. He hadn't wanted to go to war any longer. He was content wasting his days away playing shogi and training the next reckless lad who would waste his life in a direct assault on a much more experienced enemy. He was done with war.

He merely replied, in a completely unremarkable voice, neither high nor low, "what is the name of the clan you wish me to eliminate, lord Taisho?"

The leader of the samurai smirked at the expected compliance, and pointed to a small symbol on the report; a double edged black spear, sitting horizontally across the page.

"They are called the Senju…"


	2. Chapter 2: An Unfortunate Circumstance

The striking beams of light slashing through the quiet oaks of the forest like so many shining bars on a newly built cell pierced Hideyoshi's eyes, forcing the young page to squint to see the broad dirt clearing which lay between the ring of trees that their group of samurai had found themselves in. The emerald curtain of foliage coated around the iron hard forms of bark were certainly a sight to behold, he had to admit; upon the parties entrance to the forest a three days ago, many of the group, Hideyoshi included, had gaped at the titanic size so comparable to the fortress they called home.

Now, however, the prevailing attitude of the combat unit was speed. The heat, when compared to the glacial land they had become so accustomed, was almost unbearable during the day, and the nights offered little relief to the exhausted troops, who had to remain in full armor at all times, even as they slept. Sentinel had been insistent that against an enemy such as this the practice was essential, and so the men suffered from these unfamiliar surroundings. Several men became dehydrated, leading to illness claiming two men, and one unfortunate soul found himself crushed underneath a loose branch limb. The environment itself seemed to lash out with all of the fury of nature at the unwelcome invaders, and the samurai quickly took notice.

The expeditionary force was focused on expediting. The sooner the task was completed, the sooner they could all leave this cursed place in the dust behind them. Hideyoshi thanked the Buddha once more for the day's outcome; after crawling at a snail's pace for the last half of the trek, contact had finally been made with the shinobi. A group of them seemed to be journeying further west, and so Sentinel had ordered a swift march to reach this clearing in advance of the enemy. The scouts had indicated, through furious and ragged breaths, that they seemed to have returned from a fierce clash, though whether this clan was the victor or defeated miserably they couldn't have said.

The samurai had encircled the clearing, using the trees as cover. Sentinel didn't speak, gesturing imperiously with his fist. A few men nodded, but most just glared intently at the clearing. Their white armor rattled as they shifted, several of the plates muddy and worn from the travel, before Sentinel made a bitter sound similar to a bark. The entire area became deadly silent at the anger of the middle aged samurai. His own obsidian armor still shone black, as even the onslaught of the wilderness couldn't hope to penetrate his steady guard.

Bows were strung, the long ashen poles flexing and bending their polished frames as long waxed strings were looped about their edges. Several grumbled grudgingly at this; the bow, in the minds of numerous young samurai, was a coward's weapon. The heroes in the stories didn't hide like a craven behind the line and decimate their enemies from afar, but charged ahead and struck down their foes while leering into their eyes. Hideyoshi remained silent, recalling the commander's stern lecture on the bow.

_"No, Hideyoshi, it is I who do not understand their way of thinking; why would the bow be a weapon for the fearful? You can do nothing with it but attack. If you try to shield yourself with a bow, you'll be split like a freshly cut log."_

No, the bow was indeed every bit the weapon of the warrior, and it was about to see a good deal of use. Sentinel's hand, tightly clenched into a mailed fist, hung still in the air as the sound of feet began to patter lightly through the trees. The ninja appeared to be moving with great haste, and though they were still taking a good deal of care, as ninja were prone to do, their movements were comparatively sloppy and predictable.

Hideyoshi fingered his arrow nervously, anticipation boiling over into a harsher anxiety; he had never been in battle before, and the glorious apparition of waging war suddenly seemed to shine a bit less ravishingly in the face of the enemy. He mouthed silent prayers to himself as the faint whisper of shinobi feet grew into an audible rustle, stealth apparently having been forsaken altogether. A troubling thought began to play at the back of Hideyoshi's head.

_There's no way they can see us from that vantage point. So why are they…?_

The first ninja flew through the tree line into the clearing. Panting, he continued to leap ahead of his comrades. His light armor made no noise, though it appeared to be in poor condition. A sword was brandished shakily in one hand, and he constantly glanced back with horror written palpably across his face as though the devil himself was in pursuit. Hideyoshi frowned, but had no time to think of it further as a loud snap saw an arrow gliding smoothly into the man's throat.

Sentinel dropped his mailed fist, gracefully drawing, stringing, and shooting his bow in one deadly motion. The wind hissed as his arrow cut through the air to pierce a second shinobi exiting the tree line. The samurai didn't pause to confirm the hit; he knew it had. All of his men, himself included, had been trained to wait until they had a clear shot at their opponents before firing.

A broad grin formed on his face as he felt the satisfying tension move from his arms into the bow, only to be released in hail of death as a maelstrom of arrows tore into dozens of ninja who realized far too late that they had ran into a trap. Thick crimson falls of blood and gore coated the clearing as the forest came alive with the hoarse screams of the dying. One samurai, cackling loudly as his flying harbingers of hell took three ninjas down in a row, shouted encouragement to his comrades.

"Ha! That's right you slimy little tree maggots! Here's a little present from the masters of the world! Know your place! C'mon boys, keep it up! Make it rain!"

Hideyoshi, firing arrow after arrow with a pale and trembling hand, glanced nervously over at the samurai; his face was lit in a vile ecstasy, his eyes flashing dangerously and his nostrils flaring uncontrollably. Forcing himself back to his work, Hideyoshi couldn't help but feel like he was surrounded by demons as opposed to familiar comrades. Distracted by his apprehension, his arm missed his arrow, giving one shinobi the chance to lunge wildly towards the page, making a last ditch effort to escape the fatal trap. Hideyoshi yelped with terror, hurling himself to the ground and throwing up his arms in attempt to shield his vitals. Feeling the end coming, his eyes closed automatically, and he waited for the god of death to take him.

The perturbing sound of a blade sliding methodically into flesh caused the young soldier to stare through his arms at his would-be killer. Sentinel, standing firm and straight, had rammed his sword into the ninja with barely a moment's notice, crossing half the tree line in an instant. His black eyes took in everything with a cold and calculated gaze that was not without remorse. His ebony armor looked even more impressive while coated in streaks of blood, the red lines clashing brilliantly with the standard black. His dark hair was mussed lightly, though it looked more like he had just been through a light workout as opposed to battle. Hideyoshi almost let his mouth drop open at the sight; this was the true epitome of a war god.

Those cold eyes moved appraisingly over Hideyoshi as Sentinel roughly drew his blade from the fallen shinobi, and a flash of disappointment intermingled with sympathy crossed his brow before becoming stolid once more.

"Keep your guard up boy. Otherwise you'll end up like that fool over there."

The imperious voice of the commander drew Hideyoshi's gaze to his right; the samurai who had been so eager to let blood flow lay motionless with a kunai lodged in his throat. Hideyoshi gulped nervously, and his azure eyes seemed to tremble as though finally realizing he could have met that same fate. Sentinel gave a callous chuckle as he turned back to inspect the fallen ninja. Forty three of them lay dead, while only two of Sentinel's sixty eight remaining men had been felled in the process. The wizened commander bent over an young ninja's body, tenderly examining it for identification, continuing to speak as he did so. Besides the two of them, the rest of the samurai began to spread out, resting or looting the bodies of the fallen. (Very uncharacteristic of the samurai, Sentinel thought with a grimace.)

"That's good, that fear in your eyes. Young men should be frightened by war. It goes against all youth stands for, and yet embodies all that youth means. I do believe we too greatly endorse the culture of violence in our culture. Look at this child! Younger than you…I think. How old are you…"

Hideyoshi, realizing dumbly he was being addressed, stammered out a startled response.

"S-s-sir! Kinoshinta Hideyoshi! I-I'm seventeen Sentinel…er, I mean, sir Sentinel. I mean, Sentinel Si-"  
Sentinel, letting a coarse yet merry laugh escape his thin lips, waved the page off.

"Enough blabbering, boy. I understand, you're young. First battle?" 

Hideyoshi nodded, attempting to avoid another failure of character in front of his commander. Sentinel's face grew troubled at that as he went back to the shinobi youth's body.

"Seventeen…and younger…by god, why must boys such as you experience such atrocities…"

Sentinel paused as he reached a small black mark on the child soldier's armor. Three curving semi circles under a pointed crest. Similar, but it differed from the crest he had been told to find.

"Shit! Hagoromo Clan! This party is only from the Hagoromo Clan!"

Flashing his vision over the bodies, Sentinel realized his mistake; the bodies, besides the arrow punctures, each held several vicious slash and pierce wounds. Some even still had kunai and shruiken protruding out of them. The reason for their reckless haste, then, had undoubtedly been…

"Everyone get back into positions n-!"

Sentinel barely drew his sword up as a young man slashed at him from the trees, the first of many to fall from above. The two blades clashed with a metallic ring, the two combatants shaking in an attempt to overpower the other. The young ninja, eyes lit in a crimson blaze, was covered in blue plated armor adorned with fur at the shoulders. Spiky white hair, matching that of the fur on his armor, jutted from his head, while his thin, scarred face held a look of intense determination. With a grunt, Sentinel sent the youth flying backward with a guttural roar.

The young ninja's face registered a moment of shock, before he proceeded to glare at Sentinel. He fingered his headband as he did so; a simple piece with a black, dual bladed trident stamped at its front. Sentinel stared at it for a moment before nodding his understanding. The hunters had found their prey, or rather, their prey had found them.

The white haired boy quickly weaved his hands through a number of strange hand signs, and as the samurai struggled to group up, water flooded around them and began slashing at the men, who quickly began to panic at the sudden escalation of the assault. The crystalline water, moving in an unnatural and serpentine fashion, drew up in the form of three dragon heads towering menacingly over the group, looking ready to devour the unprepared soldiers.

Sentinel shot a glare at that, cursing once more and feeling his arm tense up. He gripped the handle so firmly he was afraid the hilt would shatter.

"Impressive…" he ventured, regarding the white haired youth casting water jutsu for the first time. "…just who are you, boy?" 

The three water dragons, cerulean specters of the divine ocean, arced over their master, as if shielding him. The veritable Neptune's face drew up in a confident, yet harsh grin. Cracking his knuckles and neck, he shot his hands forward as if to launch a blast from his palms.

"Rejoice. You'll be falling at the hands of Tobirama Senju today. Count yourself blessed; few men get to give their last breaths to the Scion of the Water God."

The man made tides roared as the dragons, like inexorable tsunamis, crashed towards the samurai.


End file.
